


A Sky Far Away

by SeaDreaming



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Astronomer Harry, Astronomy, Controlling Tom, Enemies to Lovers, Homophobia, M/M, Manipulative Tom, Possessive Tom Riddle, Riddle Era, Some fluff too, Soul Bond, Time Travel, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-03 21:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaDreaming/pseuds/SeaDreaming
Summary: Harry is mysteriously sent back in time on the night his parents are murdered, without any knowledge that he's from the future. He ends up in 1927 and is found on the doorstep of Wool's Orphanage. Growing up in an orphanage is never easy, especially when the resident bully, Tom Riddle, hates him for no apparent reason. It doesn't help that Harry can see into Tom's mind and he's often haunted by strange dreams. Even when Harry's tumultuous relationship with Tom begins to grow into something more, they still have many challenges to face — such as Harry suddenly being thrown back into his own time. How will he adjust to the future and finding out what really happened to his parents? More importantly, what will happen to him and Tom?[Re-post]





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I've been getting a looot of people asking me where this story went. I originally took it down because I didn't have time to update and I honestly wasn't very happy with it. But, because I know taking it down disappointed a lot of people, I've decided to put it back up. However, as I re-post chapters, I'll be making changes to the story. Some will be minor, and others will be quite significant. The general plot-line will be the same, but some elements might be noticeably different. I'm hoping to make the story a little more succinct, as I know one of the most common complaints I was getting was how long it was taking for me to get to Harry going back to the future. 
> 
> My goal is to hopefully post a chapter every one to two weeks until we get back to where we left off.

**October 31st, 1981**

Godric's Hollow was a quiet place, lined with quaint homes inhabited by friendly, welcoming people. The picturesque image lured a person into a false sense of security, leading them to believe that nothing bad ever happened there. It was humble, it was familiar, it was safe. However, on that night, the streets were restless with unease and foreboding. The trees rustled, the animals stirred, and the air became thick with dread. The serene darkness was broken only when entirety of Godric's Hollow was momentarily illuminated by two brilliant flashes of green. When it faded, all became still.

Inside one of the homes, a tall, cloaked figure stood over the body of a young woman. She was lying at an awkward angle, her torso twisted and one leg bent beneath her. Her bright red hair was a tangled mess around her face and her now lifeless green eyes stared up at the ceiling. The desperation of her last moments still glistened in the tears lingering on her cheeks.

The figure merely stepped over her with disregard and made his way across the room towards his true target. Inside of a crib was a small child, not much older than a year, who was clutching a stuffed animal in the shape of a black dog. Oddly, he had not made a sound nor cried despite having witnessed the cruel murder of his own mother. The cloaked figure stopped before him, raising his wand to the child. In that moment, the boy looked up and the figure was met with a pair of impossibly green eyes, so much like his mother's yet somehow so much brighter. The very air in the room disappeared with one sharp intake of breath, and the murderous hand faltered for a single moment.

The moment came and passed quickly. The room was once again lit by bright green light, formed from two uttered words: _"Avada Kedavra!"_

**October 31st, 1927**

The dark London street was bathed in a blinding flash. It came like a crash of lightning, burning fiercely at the very air with a current of white-hot energy. For a moment, the world stood frozen and time itself had ceased. Nothing moved — as if the buildings, the trees, the wind, the rain, were all holding their breath in anticipation. It was only when the light faded that time was allowed to catch up. The rain resumed in a gentle patter and the autumn breeze rustled through the trees in a hushed exhale.  

Everything was exactly as it had been before, save for one important difference. On the wet pavement sat a small boy with wide, green eyes and a tuft of black hair atop his head, holding a stuffed dog tightly to his chest. He did not cry or make a sound despite the rain soaking through his clothing and the night dropping into frigid temperatures.

Before the child could succumb to the harsh environment, another light poured out onto the streets, this time from the opening of a door. A thin, young woman stood at the doorway, a perplexed expression on her sharp features. The woman, Mrs. Cole, was curiously peering out onto the street for the source of the flash. When she saw the toddler sitting out in the rain, she gasped in horror and hurried down the steps. As soon as she reached him, she picked him up and wrapped him in her apron to protect him from the rain. She looked around as if expecting to find the child's parents nearby, but when she saw only dark, empty streets, her lips pressed together in a sad frown. It was not the first time she had come upon a situation similar to this one.

Walking him back up to the building, Mrs. Cole took in a few details about the mysterious boy.

The first odd thing she noticed was the injury on his forehead. It was lightly bleeding and appeared quite aggravated. It was a strange shape, much like a bolt of lightning. The second thing she noticed was the jumpsuit the child was wearing. It had the name 'Harry' stitched across the front in green lettering.

"Is that your name then, child?" she spoke to the boy as she carried him inside. Striking green eyes stared back at her with a surprising amount of perceptiveness. It was almost as if he understood her. "Well, Harry, let's get you settled then, shall we?"

The doors closed behind Mrs. Cole, darkening the streets once more. The tall, wrought iron gates that surrounded the building read: 'Wool's Orphanage.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love to hear from some of my old readers again, if any of you are here!


	2. The Drawing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so flattered by the amount of support I've been receiving about the return of this story. You guys are amazing!
> 
> Not many changes here. Just polished the writing up a bit, considering some of these earlier chapters are over two years old and don't really reflect my current style. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

**_October 31st, 1935_ **

The dreams were often the same. They usually started out with a woman who had red hair and green eyes. He never recognized her, but he had the oddest feeling he was supposed to. She seemed afraid, her eyes wide with terror and mouth open in a silent scream, looking at him like _he_ was the monster in this nightmare. The dreams always ended the same too — with the woman being burned away by a flash of green light.

"Happy birthday, Harry!"

Harry's eyes snapped open and the ceiling swirled into view. There was the pitter-patter of rain against the window and the sound of his own shaking breath. He hadn't realized how fast his heart was beating until he tried to breathe. Sitting up, he fumbled for his glasses and pressed them to his face, looking over to the person in his room.

Amy Benson threw her arms around his shoulders, giving him a tight squeeze before stepping back. She then presented Harry with his birthday present: a very wonky drawing of a kitten and a flower. It was drawn in pencil — the only writing utensils the orphans had access to — and there were three words scribbled at the top that read 'Happy Birthday, Harry!'

"Thanks, Amy," Harry said with a slight smile. "It's very pretty."

He’d almost completely forgotten about his birthday. Harry Whitley had lived his entire life in an orphanage, where birthdays and special occasions were barely a note on the calendar. He sometimes wondered what it would be like to have a real birthday, with a cake and balloons and all the things children with families got to have. He had only eaten cake once in his entire life, and that had only been because a baker throwing out old pastries had taken pity on him. Birthdays weren't entirely bad, though, seeing as Mrs. Cole always tried to do something special. Sometimes they’d take a day trip somewhere; or they were given extra helpings at meal times; or they got to be the first to have a bath (and considering they all had to share a single of tub of water, that was kind of a big deal). Small, but meaningful things like that.

"Mrs. Cole says you don't have to do any chores today," Amy said with a smile, clasping her hands behind her back. "She told me to tell you."

"Oh, but who will do mine then?" Harry asked curiously. The orphans were tasked with a daily chore, and Harry’s was typically sweeping or helping in the kitchen. It wasn't so bad, really, but some days it could get quite dull and tedious.

"I think Tom and Henry," Amy replied with a shrug.

"Oh no, Tom isn't going to be happy about that," Harry groaned. "He’ll probably be extra mean to me now."

Tom Riddle was one of the other children at the orphanage, and he was only two months younger than Harry. For as long as Harry could remember, the other boy had absolutely _hated_ him. His very first memory of Tom was when they were four — Harry had been playing with Hannah St. John when Tom had suddenly come over and shoved him. Ever since that day, it’d just been incident after incident of Tom picking on him for no reason at all. It wasn't as if he didn't do it to the other children too, it just seemed that Tom had honed in on Harry specifically.

"Tom is such a bully!" Amy said with frown, her brown eyes hard as she crossed her arms. "He's so weird, too."

"At least he doesn't hate you as much as he does me," Harry mumbled, standing up and setting the drawing on his desk. He proceeded to make his bed, straightening out the blankets and arranging the pillow neatly. Mrs. Cole always checked their rooms every day to make sure they were tidy. The last time he had forgotten to make his bed, he'd been sent down to help with the laundry — easily one of the worst chores to be given. His poor hands had been prunes by the end of it.

"I think he's just jealous of you," Amy said. "At least, that's what Mrs. Edwards always says when someone is being a bully: that they're just jealous."

Mrs. Edwards was their primary school teacher. She was a very strict woman, but not necessarily unkind. She didn't punish them nearly as much as some of the other teachers did their students. That didn't mean she didn't hesitate to whack them over their hands or send them to stand in the corner when they misbehaved, though.

"Why would he be jealous of me?" Harry rolled his eyes. "Tom thinks he's better than everyone."

"I don't know, it was just a thought," Amy shrugged again. "Anyway, you better hurry and get dressed. Mrs. Cole might be up here soon."

With that, Amy turned on her heels and walked out of the room to allow Harry to change. He dressed in a simple pair of grey shorts, a white button shirt and a dull grey coat. They were hand-me-downs donated to the orphanage, and the materials were rather worn (some spots had already needed sewing), but they were at least clean. If there was one thing the run-down orphanage could pride itself on, it was the clean state of both the building and its orphans.

After pulling on his socks, Harry slipped into his shoes and attempted to flatten his hair down. It was always a great source of annoyance to Mrs. Cole, who preferred her orphans to look tidy and Harry's hair was anything but. Try as he might, it only continued to stick up in all sorts of odd directions.

When he walked downstairs, he saw Henry and Tom were already in the hallway. Henry was sweeping the floor with a broom while Tom just stood there. Already, Harry knew he had somehow coerced poor Henry into doing a bulk of the work. It was rather common occurrence for Tom to make the other orphans do his chores for him.

"Happy birthday, Harry," Henry greeted cheerfully, pausing his sweeping.

"Thanks, Henry," Harry replied with a smile.

"It's not even his birthday," Tom said, dark eyes turning to Harry. Harry felt his teeth grind together. "They don't know when his _real_ birthday is."

"Well, it's close enough, isn't it?" Henry muttered, turning his gaze downward and resuming his work.

"Just seems like a lot of fuss for a fake birthday," Tom continued, keeping his gaze on Harry as if goading him.

Unable to stop himself, Harry bristled and retorted hotly, “You’re just jealous because no one cares about _your_ birthday, Tom.”

That seemed to hit its intended mark, because Tom’s eyes hardened instantly. What happened next was not all that unexpected: Harry’s mind was taken over by a slew of unfamiliar images that he recognized as being memories. The odd part, though? He wasn’t seeing them from his own point of view — he was actually seeing them through Tom’s eyes.

_He was sitting completely alone on his sixth birthday. The older orphans were taunting him for being 'weird' and a 'freak’, laughing and jeering over the fact that he had no friends. He'd become so angry that the drapes had somehow caught fire as a result, which only made the other children keep away from him even more. By the end of the day, not a single person had wished him a happy birthday._

Once the memory faded, Harry found himself regretting his words to Tom. It was obvious he’d hit a very sore spot with the other boy (not that he didn’t deserve it on some level) and it made him feel somewhat guilty. He also knew he should probably feel bad for invading Tom’s private memories again, but it wasn’t something he could actually control. It always just _happened_. If anything, he was quite sure it worked the other way around: _Tom’s_ thoughts were invading _his_ mind.

For as long as Harry could remember, he’d been able to see Tom’s thoughts and memories. He knew such a thing shouldn't be possible, but there was no other way to explain it. He wasn’t even sure if Tom himself was aware that it happened, or if he was able to see Harry's thoughts in return, for that matter. All Harry knew for sure was that it was always _just_ Tom's thoughts, and that it made his head hurt and scar hurt something awful.

His scar was another odd thing about him. He’d apparently had it since he was a baby, but no one could explain how it got there. It wasn’t a normal scar, either — it had the unique shape of a lightning bolt. The only conclusion Harry could come to about its inexplicable presence was that it must have something to do with his strange mind-reading powers.

"What do you want, Whitley?"

Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by Tom’s cold voice, and it dawned on him that he’d been staring at the other boy the entire time he'd been thinking. The realization was mortifying to say the least, and Harry felt a flush crawl up his neck. He forced a scowl on his face to hide his embarrassment.

"Nothing, _Riddle._ Just wondering if you were going to stand there all day doing nothing.”

Tom looked unaffected by Harry's words. "These are _your_ chores we're doing."

"You mean _Henry_ is doing," Harry shot back, clenching his fists. "You haven't so much as lifted a finger!"

"Feel free to help him out, then,” Tom said, shoving his unused broom into Harry’s hands before walking away.

Harry stared after him in disbelief. "Ohhh, one of these days—" he growled, punching his fist into his palm.

"Don't let him get to you, Harry," Henry offered a sympathetic smile. "I think he messes with you the most because he knows it gets to you."

"And it doesn't get to you?" Harry asked incredulously. "How can you just stand there and do whatever he says?"

"Because bad things always happen when I don't," Henry mumbled. "I'd rather not find spiders in my shoes again."

"I suppose," Harry frowned. "I still think I'd rather have spiders in my shoes than be bossed around by Tom."

It frustrated Harry how much influence Tom had over the other orphans. He always managed to get them to do whatever he wanted and no one dared stand up to him anymore — which was admittedly because bad things _really_ did happen to those who tried. Harry was the only one who didn’t bend to Tom’s will and he knew that probably irritated the bully to no end.

“Wish I was as brave as you,” was Henry’s despondent reply.

“You are, Henry. You just have to believe it.” Harry offered an encouraging smile. “Anyway, we best get back to work before Mrs. Cole tans our backsides”

After the finished their morning chores and had breakfast, they trooped back up to their rooms so they could change into their school uniforms. It was a bit of a hassle to wake up, dress in their day clothing, do their chores and then go back up to change again. It would have been much easier if they could just work in their uniforms, but Mrs. Cole never allowed it. She wanted their uniforms to stay in pristine condition.

Glancing out the window, Harry noticed that the rain had picked up quite a bit by then. It was beating against the window with ferocity, the city streets barely visible through the haze. It wasn't going to be fun walking to school in that. Sighing, he wrapped a scarf around his neck and picked up his worn-out satchel before heading out to meet the other orphans.

xxxxx

When they returned from school that afternoon, they were immediately sent up to their rooms for study time. Mrs. Cole always made them do coursework for at least two hours a day. It was two hours of torturous and boring silence where absolutely no interaction was allowed, but they at least always had an hour of free-time afterwards to look forward to.

Harry walked into his tiny room and pulled all of his study books out. As he was setting them on his desk, his brows furrowed when he noticed something was amiss — an empty spot on the desk that should not have been empty.

The drawing!

Harry checked in his bag, under the desk, under his bed and even tore away the blankets and linens to make sure it wasn't in there either. After shaking the pages of his books loose, Harry was convinced that the drawing was nowhere in the room. Setting the book back down, he began to wrack his mind for any possible answers regarding the disappearance of the drawing. The only logical explanation he could come up with was that someone must have taken it. Breath hitching, Harry's eyes widened.

_Tom!_

A sudden horrifying thought struck Harry and he ran over to his wardrobe. Throwing the doors open, he opened the drawer and dug around inside of it frantically. Relief flooded him when he found what he was looking for — a stuffed black dog. It was quite old and ragged, with one eye missing and its once soft fur now matted and coarse. It was one of Harry's only personal possessions, which he’d had for as long as he could remember. It had most likely come from his parents and that made it somehow even more important. He always worried that one day Tom was going to find it and steal it like he did with everyone else's things.

When the panic passed, the anger came full force. Storming out the door and down the hallway, Harry made his way towards Tom's room, jaw clenched. Just before he could burst into Tom's room and unleash his fury, though, something made him stop dead. It was the sight of Tom sitting on his bed with Amy's drawing in his hands, a frown on his face. His expression was one of gloomy contemplation — a startling contrast to his normal cold apathy.

The memory of Tom alone and being teased on his birthday came back to Harry, and suddenly he couldn’t bring himself to be angry anymore. Instead, a sad realization occurred to him: Tom had never received a birthday present. It seemed Harry's words from earlier really had been true — no one cared about Tom's birthday.

Harry knew that _logically_ it was Tom's fault things were that way. He isolated himself from everyone and treated them cruelly. He’d steal their things, but had never received a gift out of kindness. No one liked him, everyone feared him and Tom had effectively made himself friendless. Yet, against all rational and reasonable thought, Harry still felt sorry for him.

In the end, he just turned around and left Tom with the drawing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm running on three shots of espresso and four hours of sleep. I am currently working towards my master's degree while also working full time. I have so many papers to write it's ridiculous, yet I'm procrastinating so hard by working on this story coz I'm smart.


	3. The Snake

**December 31 st, 1935**

That morning brought unexpected snowfall. It wasn’t very much, only a light stream of snowflakes that created a thin layer of white along the roads, but it was still a nice change from days upon days of dreary rainfall that were more typical in London.

As soon as their chores were finished, all of the orphans quickly dressed in their winter clothing and ran outside. Each of them was wearing a new scarf and a pair of handmade mittens that’d been Christmas presents donated by the local church. They were dull brown in color and a little itchy, but they otherwise did the job well enough. Amy and Hannah were currently trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues, while Dennis, Henry and Billy Stubbs were attempting to pack enough snow together to make snowballs (even if it didn't look like they being very successful).

Harry was sitting on the front steps, elbows propped on his knees and chin resting in his hands. He was still recovering from a cold he’d caught a couple weeks back, so he wasn’t up for doing much more than simply watching the other kids play. Besides, after being laid up in bed for so long, he was just happy to be somewhere other than his drab room.

Sniffling, Harry rubbed at his nose and glanced up when he heard someone come outside. Upon seeing that it was Tom, he scowled heavily and resisted the urge to go move somewhere else. He wouldn’t let Tom have the satisfaction of ruining his first time outside in days.

Tom stood off to the side, his apathetic gaze fixed on the other children as they played. Today was Tom’s birthday but, like every year, no one had paid it any mind. As far as Harry knew, the only person to tell Tom ‘happy birthday’ so far was Mrs. Cole (and the general consensus was that she didn’t count because she was ‘obligated to’).

Harry thought back to the memory of Tom’s sixth birthday, recalling how lonely and miserable the boy had seemed in it. He couldn’t imagine having no friends at all, and he’d spent most of the day wondering if he should just say something to Tom — after all, everyone deserved  _some_  acknowledgement on their birthday, right? Even bullies like Tom. What held Harry back was the knowledge that Tom would most likely be mean about it and throw it right back in his face.

So, he remained silent.

Around noon time, Mrs. Cole’s helper, Martha, called them in for lunch. One by one, they stamped the snow off their boots and trekked back into the warmth of the building. Harry coughed into his hands and then removed his scarf and mittens, hanging them up by the door alongside everyone else’s. After walking into the dining hall to join the rest, he took a seat between Henry and Amy.

Their meal was leftover stew, which was comprised of mostly potatoes, grisly bits of meat, and a sparse amount of vegetables. There was also a slice of crusty bread and a cup of steaming tea to go with it. The tea was plain and bitter, and only Tom had been allowed milk and sugar since it was his birthday. Harry still gulped it down, though, the warmth of it soothing his sore throat.

"Did you finish the homework Mrs. Edwards assigned us over the holidays, Harry?" Amy asked as she spooned stew into her mouth.

"Most of it," Harry answered, poking at his own stew disinterestedly. “Everything except the maths worksheets. I didn’t understand some of the problems.”

In his defense, being ill over the holidays had made it quite difficult for him to do anything other than sleep a whole lot, so he was just proud that he'd managed to finish what he had. Unsurprisingly, though, Tom had his own opinion about the whole thing.

"Maths too difficult for you?” he commented mockingly from across the table. “You really are dim, aren’t you?”

It was obvious he was only trying to goad Harry into reacting, and as usual it worked.

"Shut up, Tom!" Harry snapped, voice hoarse but still heated. "We weren't talking to you, so mind your own business!"

There was a loud cracking sound as Tom's cup suddenly shattered to pieces, tea splashing  _everywhere_  — most of it going all over Tom. Silence fell through the room as everyone stared at the scene in varying states of shock. Henry’s mouth was hanging agape, while Hannah and Amy wore matching stunned expressions. Even Tom appeared quite taken by surprise, his eyes uncharacteristically wide as he stared at Harry.

"What is  _going_   _on_  in here? What was that sound I heard?"

Mrs. Cole appeared in the dining room, her gaze sweeping over each child suspiciously. When she came to Tom, her eyebrows shot up at the state he was in. Bits of broken cup were littered at his feet, and the whole front of his shirt was soaked with tea. Her expression quickly turned disapproving as she placed her hands on her hips.

"What happened?"

It was almost artistic how fluidly Tom’s demeanor shifted into one of meek timidity in Mrs. Cole’s presence — a tactic he used to get adults to sympathize with him. Harry’s stomach sank in dread, just knowing that Tom was about to lie and blame the whole thing on him.

"It was an accident. The cup slipped out of my hands."

Harry’s head snapped up in surprise at Tom’s answer. Now  _that_ was unexpected.

Mrs. Cole shook her head, her lips pressed together. "Must you children be so careless? Have I not taught you to take good care of your things?” she chastised.  “Well, go on then, clean this mess up and go change your clothing."

As soon as Mrs. Cole left the room, Tom turned to Harry and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. If Harry didn't know any better, he would've thought Tom really  _did_ blame him for the incident. The idea was completely preposterous, to say the least — Harry had been all the way across the table when the cup broke! It wasn’t _his_  fault that Tom was a clumsy oaf! Besides, if Tom really did think him responsible, then why hadn’t he taken the chance to pin the whole thing on Harry? It just didn’t make any sense.

He wasn’t given a chance to ponder on it long, though, because Tom had already walked out of the room — leaving Harry and the others to clean up the mess. _Typical_. With a sigh, Harry went to fetch the broom and began sweeping up the broken shards.

"That was so weird," Henry said, mopping up some of the spilled tea with a cloth. "That cup just broke for no reason."

“I just wish Mrs. Cole had actually punished him,” Amy commented with a huff. “ _Perfect_ Tom never gets punished."

"Well, it  _was_  an accident," Harry pointed out as he swept the broken cup into the dust pan.

"So?" Dennis scoffed. "It would serve him right. "Tom is always getting us in trouble for stuff  _he_ does."

Harry knew that Dennis had a point, but there was no way for them to prove any of it. It was just the way things were and they had to live with that.

When he was done sweeping, Harry went to toss the broken pieces into the rubbish bin and then put the broom away. With his appetite completely gone, he had no interest in returning to the dining room, so he started up to his room instead. Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and then climbed into his rickety old bed, suddenly feeling quite ill and wanting nothing more than to sleep the rest of the day.

Sniffling softly, he stared out the window at the falling snow, his eyes soon growing heavy until he drifted off to sleep.

_He was sitting in his room, his attention directed down at a medium sized snake coiled around his hands. He was whispering to it, and the snake was whispering back._

_“They were talking about me again,” he hissed to the snake. “I heard them.”_

_“What shall I do, master?” the snaked said back._

_“The girl,” he said. “Go to her room and hide in her bed. When she comes back, I want you to bite her. Understand?”_

_The snake flicked its forked tongued. "Yes, master.”_

_"Don't get seen by anyone else," he commanded, placing the snake on the floor._

_The snake slithered across the room and disappeared out the door._

Harry suddenly jerked awake, the action causing him to burst out into a violent coughing fit. Only when it subsided did he start to recall the dream he’d just had. It’d felt bizarrely real _,_ and that made him think — _could_ it have been real? He could still vividly recall sitting in that room, holding that very-real-feeling snake in his hands while talking to it.

_The snake!_

Hurriedly, Harry threw the blankets off himself and scrambled out of bed. He walked over to the door and poked his head out, peering down the hallway. It was empty and quiet, save for a noise that sounded suspiciously like hissing coming from one of the rooms. Curious now, Harry began following the mysterious sound. The farther he walked, the louder it became, until it eventually led him to Amy’s room, where Harry stopped and glanced inside.

_*I smell a human. Someone has arrived.*_

Hearing those words only fueled Harry’s curiosity. He slowly walked into the room and began searching around for the source of the voice. When his eyes landed on a rather strange lump on the bed, he swallowed audibly and reached out to cautiously pull the blankets back. He gasped. There was the snake, lying coiled up in Amy's bed.

"It  _is_ real!"

 _*You are not the girl I am supposed to be waiting for,*_  the snake said, much to Harry’s shock.

"You...you can talk?" Harry asked, dumbfounded. He had accepted the snake talking in the dream, because well...it'd been a dream. This was real life and snakes weren't supposed to talk.

 _*Of course I can talk, stupid boy!*_ the snake hissed in annoyance.  _*It’s more curious that another human can speak my language.*_

"You mean, someone else can talk to you? Besides me, that is?" Harry questioned eagerly. For some reason, carrying on a conversation with a snake felt like the most natural thing in the world to do.

 _*Yes, my master talks to me all the time — he is the one who sent me here,*_ the snake answered, and Harry could’ve sworn he saw it nod its head too.

"Who's your master?" Harry asked, despite already having an idea — there was only one person in the whole orphanage whose head he could see into.

_*My master's name is Tom.*_

"How did I guess?" Harry muttered, rolling his eyes. If there was anyone who'd send a snake into a little girl's bed, it was definitely Tom. "Listen, you shouldn't be here, okay? Amy is a really nice girl and I don't want to see her get scared."

 _*But my master told me to stay here,*_ the snake hissed.

"I know, I'm sorry," Harry said, gingerly picking the snake up. It made a noise of aggravation, but thankfully didn’t attempt to bite him. "I promise I won't hurt you, I just can't let you do that to—"

"What on Earth do you think you're  _doing_?"

Harry's heart plummeted to his feet. Slowly, he turned around and looked up at Mrs. Cole with wide, fearful eyes. He knew it was too late to hide the snake — she had already seen it. Before Harry could attempt an explanation, he was roughly grabbed by the collar of his shirt and yanked out of the room.

"N-no, Mrs. Cole, wait, I wasn't—"

"Be quiet! Of all the despicable, vile things I've seen!" Mrs. Cole seethed, keeping a firm grip on his collar as she dragged him down the hall. "Did you think it would be funny to scare poor Amy by putting a snake in her bed?"

He wasn't given a chance to answer, practically stumbling over his own feet as he was pulled into the kitchen. Mrs. Cole marched him over to the door that led into the back alley and threw it open.

"Get rid of that thing this instant!" she pointed sharply out the door.

Harry's eyes widened and he shook his head rapidly. "No! It's too cold out there! It'll die!"

" _Now!_ " Mrs. Cole yelled. "Do not make me tell you again!"

Shakily, Harry stepped out into the alley and looked around for the warmest place to put the snake. Upon spotting a pile of newspapers and cardboard boxes, he decided to set it down there.

"I'm so sorry,” he whispered to the snake. “You need to find shelter quickly, okay?”

"Back inside, now!" Mrs. Cole shouted from the doorway.

Harry jumped up, sparing one last look to the snake before running back to the door, where he was pulled inside by Mrs. Cole. She roughly grabbed his wrists and positioned both of his hands so they were held out in front of him, palms down.

"Keep your hands like that," she ordered. “Do not move.”

Harry watched as she walked off, doing his best to keep himself still despite how much he was trembling. When she returned, she was carrying a heavy, wooden spoon in her hand and Harry’s stomach clenched in dread.

Even though he knew what was coming, he was still taken by surprise when the first hit landed with a resounding  _‘whack!’_. Sharp pain traveled through his knuckles and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. The punishment lasted for five strikes on both hands, each more painful than the last. By the time it was over with, Harry had tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.

"You will do double chores for the entire week," Mrs. Cole told him, staring down at him with a stern expression. "I hope this teaches you a lesson about doing such cruel things to others."

"Yes, Mrs. Cole," Harry sniffled, cradling his abused hands. Bright red welts had appeared across his knuckles, which were throbbing terribly and even bleeding a little.

"You may go now," she told him, giving him a light pat on the back.

Harry rubbed the tears from his eyes and walked out of the kitchen on shaky legs. As he headed up the stairs, he came across Tom in the hallway — the very last person he wanted to see right now. The other boy was dressed in clean clothes now and oddly appeared to be waiting for him. Harry grit his teeth and narrowed his eyes, fully expecting a smug remark about the beating he'd received, or something equally as snide and cruel. To his surprise, however, Tom didn't say anything; he just glanced down at Harry's swollen hands with an unreadable expression.

Wiping away some more tears, Harry impatiently brushed past him, not in the mood for whatever Tom was up to.

“How’d you do it?”

The question made Harry stop, and he turned to look back with furrowed brows. “Do what?”

“Break the cup,” Tom clarified, staring at him.

Harry glared at him, unable to believe Tom’s audacity — was he really going to pull that right then? Right after Harry had  _just_ taken the blame for one of Tom’s cruel pranks? It was downright infuriating.

“I _didn’t_ ,” he snapped.

With that, Harry turned away and quickly strode to his room. He wanted nothing more than to get away from Tom, so he could forget all about him, and the snake, and his aching hands, and Tom’s stupid birthday. Strangely, it was that particular thought that caused Harry to pause, even as he was just about to slam his door shut.

_Tom's birthday._

Despite all of his anger and frustration, despite everything Tom had put him through, Harry somehow couldn’t bring himself to just leave things like that, with Tom standing in the hallway all alone on his birthday. It was stupid and ridiculous and didn't make _any_ sense whatsoever, but —

_‘Just say it — he doesn’t deserve it, but just say it anyway.’_

Hand still gripping the door knob, Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Happy birthday, Tom," he murmured, just barely audible.

Without waiting for Tom’s reaction, he swiftly closed the door with a resounding click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, I was not prepared for how much editing and polishing these earlier chapters would actually need. I had no idea my writing was so choppy two years ago.


	4. The Stuffed Dog

_**July 31st, 1936** _

Laughter echoed around the neighborhood as the children spilled out of the orphanage with uncontained excitement. Their chores were done for the day and Mrs. Cole had allowed them the rest of the afternoon to do whatever they pleased, so long as they were back before nightfall.

They chose to go to the park. It was the perfect day for it — warm and sunny, where the sky was an open expanse of cloudless blue, and the scent of green grass and yesterday’s rain lingered in the air pleasantly. It certainly made for much-needed reprieve from the musty decay of the old orphanage and the suffocating smell of cleaning chemicals. The children had a  _whole_ afternoon where they didn't have to clean or do any chores, and they were going to make the most of it.

“Over here, Harry! We found a spot!”

Harry jogged over to join his friends on an open stretch of grass, where Dennis and Amy seemed to be in the middle of an argument of sorts.

“I don’t want any girls on my team!” Dennis was saying heatedly.

“And why's that?” Amy retorted, hands on her hips.

“Because you’re  _girls_ ,” Dennis repeated, as if that explained everything. “You’ll just ruin the whole game!”

“We can play just as well as any boy!” Amy shouted back. “Besides, without us, you won’t have enough players!”

“They can be on my team,” Harry offered, trying to mitigate the fight before it escalated. “I don’t mind.”

Both paused in their argument to look at him. Amy smiled widely in gratitude, while Dennis looked annoyed and incredulous.

"You really want to be on a team with _two girls_?"

Harry shrugged. "Why not?"

“Just let them play, Dennis,” Henry said. “It’s not a big deal.”

Dennis huffed, but eventually gave a curt nod. “Alright, fine,” he grumbled reluctantly. “It’ll be me, Billy and Henry against Harry, Amy and Hannah.”

They formed their teams and briefly went over the rules for the girls. After designating the goalposts (which were just sticks and rocks on either side of the field), the game was finally started. One thing to know about Harry was that he was _really_ good at sports. In the past, he'd always been underestimated by his peers due to his scrawny appearance, but they'd been quick to learn that he was actually extremely agile and fast. Within seconds, he easily intercepted the ball from Billy and ran it down a good stretch of the field while the others tried (and failed) to get it back from him. He kicked it over to Amy, who then made the first score for their team, the ball soaring right past Dennis.

“That was just a lucky shot!” Dennis shouted.

“You be quiet, Dennis Bishop!” Amy called back. “You’re just sore that a girl is beating you!”

“Nothing more than beginner’s luck!”

“We'll see!”

To everyone's surprise, Amy had turned out to be quite a fierce competitor, already having scored several points for their team. Hannah, on the other hand, seemed to be struggling to keep up with everyone else and had yet to score a single goal. At one point, she ended up kicking the ball so far out of bounds that it wasn't in even the park anymore.

“Good going, Hannah!” Billy teased. “The goal is over there, not across the street!”

Hannah wrung her hands in embarrassment. “I'm sorry!”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it!” Harry told her and ran off.

After waiting for a car to pass, Harry quickly darted across the street and collected the ball, where he proceeded to punt it back onto the field. At first, it looked like it would just fall harmlessly onto the grass, but then something odd happened — it unexpectedly changed direction mid-air and hit Dennis square in the face.  _Hard_.

There was a cry from Dennis as he tumbled to the ground, clutching at his face in obvious pain. Harry’s eyes widened and immediately ran over to the boy, where he dropped to his knees beside him. The others soon joined as well, forming a circle around Dennis.

“Blimey, you really clobbered him, Harry!” Henry said in amazement, eyes wide.

"I didn’t mean to! I'm so sorry, Dennis!” Harry said frantically. “Are you alright?”

Dennis rubbed his face and looked up at Harry with slightly watery eyes. There was an angry red mark on his nose, but he looked otherwise unharmed.

"I think so," the boy responded with a sniff. "That was some kick, Harry."

"I didn’t think I’d kicked it  _that_  hard," Harry said, offering his hand out to help Dennis back to his feet. "I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," Dennis said, rubbing at his nose one more time before jokingly adding, "Next time, you're on my team."

“Great, now that we know Harry hasn’t killed Dennis, let’s get back to the game!” Amy said eagerly. “I want to finish beating Dennis so I can rub it in his face.”

Dennis glared. “You weren’t beating me!” he retorted. “If I recall correctly, it was  _my_  team that was winning!”

“You're dreaming, Dennis!”

"Let's just settle this on the field then, shall we?"

While the others bickered and walked off, Harry’s attention was now focused on Tom. The other boy had been sitting off the side the whole time, never one to join in on games (or anything _fun_ , really). It’d been very easy to ignore Tom up until then, but now Harry was staring at him suspiciously. Despite the whole thing having been an accident, it'd undoubtedly been a very  _strange_ accident — and whenever something strange happened, Tom was usually behind it.

Harry just couldn't figure out  _how._

"Heads up, Harry!"

It was only then that Harry realized the others had resumed the game, and he just barely managed to dodge the ball flying towards him in time. By the worst luck imaginable, it ended up rolling to a stop right next to Tom’s feet.

Everyone froze, exchanging glances as they wordlessly debated over who would go over to retrieve it. As usual, Harry ended up being the unfortunate nominee. He strode over to where Tom was sitting and glared at him defiantly as he picked up the ball, practically daring him to try something. A rather tense few seconds followed where Tom just stared right back, unnerving and quiet, but otherwise not making a move to do anything. Just when Harry thought he was going to walk away without incident, the ball suddenly popped into his hand, causing him to gasp and jump in surprise.

"Huh...?" he blinked confusedly down at the shredded pieces of the ball in his hands.

"Good going, Harry!" Henry called over to him. "That was our only ball!"

Furrowing his brows, Harry looked back at Tom, more bewildered than anything. His suspicions were telling him that Tom had popped the ball somehow, but — once again — he had no logical explanation  _how_  he could’ve done that. There were no indicators in the other boy’s expression that might give away guilt, and even Harry had to admit that Tom hadn’t done anything but sit there and stare at him — not exactly the most damning evidence.

“Better get back to your friends, Whitley,” Tom said in a dismissive manner. “Try not to break anything else in the meantime.”

Pressing his lips together, Harry just glared at Tom one last time before leaving to rejoin his friends. As he approached them, they were already discussing what they should play next, now that their only ball was ruined.

In that moment, several large shadows appeared over them, practically blocking out the sun. Harry looked up to see four boys he didn't recognize at all; they were much bigger and obviously older than them, looking to be around twelve or thirteen years old, at least. They loomed over Harry and his friends in what could only be construed as a threatening manner.

"This is our field," the biggest, and presumably the leader, said. "You better leave."

"We were here first," Harry shot back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Besides, I don't see your name around anywhere."

"Do you think you're tough?" the big kid said, advancing on Harry. "I'll give you one more chance to get off this field or you'll regret it."

"I think I'll stay right here, thanks," Harry said defiantly, not budging from his spot. He could practically feel the others shifting nervously beside him. They weren't used to standing up to bullies like Harry was.

This angered the leader — his eyes flashed dangerously and he shoved Harry roughly in the chest. Unable to keep his footing, Harry fell to the ground with a loud  _'oof!'_. While this was happening, one of the other kids had grabbed Henry by the front of the shirt, fist drawn back like he was about to hit him. All poor Henry could do was stand there, petrified with fear.

"Leave him alone!" Harry yelled and jumped to his feet.

Without really thinking about what he was doing, Harry charged at the boy holding Henry and rammed into him with the full force of his weight (which, admittedly, wasn’t much). It was just enough to send the kid crashing to the ground, Harry and Henry tumbling right along with him.

There was a moment of complete silence as everyone took in what’d just happened. Slowly, the bully’s face turned bright red from anger (and maybe some embarrassment), eyes turning to Harry with a murderous glare. It was in that moment that Harry knew he was dead. Completely and utterly  _dead_.

"I’ll get you for that, kid!"

Harry knew he wouldn't stand a chance in an actual fight against the bigger kid, so he did the only thing he could think to do — he scrambled to his feet and took off running. His heart was beating wildly as heard the other kids making chase behind him, their thunderous footfalls echoing loudly in his ears. Even though Harry fast, the other kids were bigger and had longer legs, which meant they were quickly gaining on him. Frantic and in a complete panic, Harry looked around for somewhere to hide. It was the only way he was going to survive this situation.

It seemed to happen in a blink of an eye: one moment, Harry was running for his life, and the next he was suddenly high up in a tree, safely out of reach. It took him a moment to realize where he was but, before he could contemplate the bizarre occurrence, his attention was brought back to the group of boys as they appeared directly beneath him. Harry went completely still and held his breath, peering anxiously down at the gang.

"Where did he go?"

"He was just here!"

"Don't just stand there! Go find him!"

Harry waited until they were completely out of sight before allowing himself to breathe. Once the panic started to fade, he once again became aware of the fact that he'd somehow ended up in a tree. Quite far up, too. Confusion immediately set in, as he couldn't remember climbing it at all. The only reasonable explanation he could come up with was that he'd blanked out and climbed the tree out of pure adrenaline. Either that, or he'd flown — which, of course, was just ridiculous.

Checking once more to make sure the bullies weren’t returning, Harry carefully moved off his branch and began climbing down the tree. His friends had shown up by that point, and they were staring up at him with pure amazement.

"Wow, how did you get all the way up there, Harry?" Henry shouted up to him.

"I don't know," Harry called back, trying to find footing on the branch below him. “One minute I was running, then next I — ah!”

There was a loud snap as the branch gave way, and Harry was suddenly toppling out of the tree. Feeling his stomach plummet along with him, Harry squeezed his eyes tightly shut and waited for the inevitable impact. Strangely, however, he felt his descent start to slow dramatically on the way down. By the time he actually hit the ground, his body only made a soft ‘flump’ against the grass. For the longest moment, he just lay there with his eyes squeezed shut, heartbeat erratic and deafening in his ears.

"Harry! Cripes, are you okay?"

"That was some fall!"

“I’m alright,” Harry managed to say, voice shaky.

Finally opening his eyes, he was able to make out the blurred faces of Henry, Dennis, Amy and Hannah all gathered around above him. Pushing himself into a sitting position, Harry rubbed the back of his head, where he could feel twigs and leaves sticking out of his wild locks. He was a mess, but he was alive.

Henry helped him to his feet and then pressed something into his hand. Realizing that they were his glasses, Harry gratefully slipped them back on and blinked a couple times to clear his vision. Only then did he become fully aware of the state he was in —scrapes and bruises littered his arms and he’d even managed to make a couple of tears in his trousers.

"Mrs. Cole is going to be so angry," Harry groaned as he fingered one of the rips.

"Ugh, that's some bad luck," Dennis said sympathetically. "Last time I ripped my clothing, Mrs. Cole made me work in the kitchen for two weeks scrubbing pots and pans!"

"Martha should be able to sew those up for you, at least," Henry said in an attempt to make Harry feel better. "She's really good."

"After Mrs. Cole is done flaying me alive, of course."

With a sigh, Harry began pulling the leaves out of his hair as they all trekked back across the park. To his surprise, Harry spotted Tom standing only a few meters away, watching them intently. Harry briefly wondered when Tom had gotten there — last he remembered, the other boy had been sitting on the bench, doing his absolute best to avoid everyone. It was a bit odd that he was there now.

He met Tom's gaze and the images came like flashes: Harry playing with the others, Harry running from the bullies and finally, Harry falling out of the tree. There was a pervading sense of urgency in the memories, all coming directly from Tom as he willed Harry’s body to slow before it hit the ground.

As the memories faded away, Harry found himself staring at Tom in confusion. He couldn't make sense of what he'd just seen. On one hand, it almost appeared as if Tom had _saved_  him. On the other hand, that notion was utterly ridiculous on several levels: for one, Tom absolutely despised him and probably would’ve taken great joy in seeing Harry gravely injured; and for two, it wasn’t possible for Tom to  _will_ something like that with his mind, was it? Once again, Harry was left utterly baffled by the other boy.

With a shake of his head, he just turned away from Tom and ran off, joining his friends in a game of tag.

xxxxx

As predicted, Harry was punished quite severely for his ripped clothing. He'd received a good smacking on the behind, and the next morning he was put to work scrubbing the floors with the promise of no meals until he was finished.

With a sore bum and a sour attitude, Harry set to his task. He started on the upper floors and slowly worked his way down, only stopping on occasion when he needed to swap out the water in his bucket. It was especially tedious considering people kept accidentally walking along the spots he'd already cleaned, forcing him to double back and start all over.

The entire time, Harry was bemoaning the unfairness of his situation. He'd nearly been beaten to a pulp by a gang of bullies and yet  _he_  was being punished for it. Mrs. Cole was not a cruel woman by any means, but she could be quite unsympathetic to their plights, and overly strict with her punishments as a result. She always told them that it was to instill a 'sense of respect and responsibility'.

As far as Harry was concerned, he had  _plenty_  of respect and responsibility.

By the time he reached the downstairs hall, the sleeves and front of his jacket were almost completely soaked through with water. Dropping the scrubber into the bucket, Harry wiped some sweat from his forehead and took a moment to catch his breath. His back was aching from bending over and his knees were sore and bruised from hours kneeling on them. He looked down at his hands to see that they were covered in fresh sores, which would eventually turn into callouses like all the rest.

Despite his discomfort, Harry just picked up the scrubber and continued working. His stomach was rumbling and he only had a bit more to go before he'd finally be able to eat something. He was so focused on finishing his task and daydreaming about food that he almost didn't notice someone walking past. A pair of feet appeared in his line of vision, bringing his attention to the trail of dirty footprints all over his freshly scrubbed floor.

Glancing up, Harry was unsurprised to see Tom. The other boy was staring down at him almost disdainfully, and it didn't take a genius to figure out he'd dirtied up the floor on purpose. With a growl, Harry jumped to his feet and threw the scrubber down aggressively.

"Watch where you're walking with your dirty feet!" he yelled angrily. "It took me all day to clean this floor!"

"Well, then maybe you should work a little faster," Tom replied, speaking with that infuriatingly superior tone of his. "What's this, the fifth time this month that you've been punished? At this rate, you'll end up the permanent maid."

Harry grit his teeth and narrowed his eyes. "Half the time it's because of something  _you_ did, Tom!"

"Maybe you should work on not getting caught, then," Tom retorted, straight-up taunting Harry at this point. "Though, I somehow doubt you're clever enough for that."

Harry's cheeks flushed with barely suppressed anger and his hands curled tightly into fists. There was a strange sound as the bucket next to them started rattling, the motion becoming increasingly more violent until the whole thing suddenly tipped over, sloshing sudsy water all across the floor.

Tom hurriedly tried to step away from the mess, but he only ended up slipping in the water and falling on his back — directly into the puddle. Harry stared at the scene, almost unable to believe what’d just happened, before snorting and slapping his hands over his mouth in an attempt to mute his uncontrollable laughter.

As Tom sat up, his clothes were soaked through and his normally controlled expression was visibly flustered. He was glaring at Harry, who was still laughing despite his best efforts not to. The moment was short lived, though —  Harry's laughter was cut off by the bucket suddenly slamming into his stomach with enough force to knock the wind out of him (and Harry found himself wondering when Tom had even thrown it). He gasped and roughly fell onto his knees, clutching at his middle.

Wheezing, Harry shot Tom with a hateful glare, which Tom returned with equal fire.

It was a complete stalemate, where neither boy backed down or looked away — but then something interesting happened. Feelings of hurt and anger pervaded Harry’s awareness, but he immediately recognized that they weren’t  _his_ emotions. They were Tom’s feelings once again invading his mind.

Harry blinked several times, his expression softening into one of perplexity. There was absolutely no way that cruel, heartless Tom cared enough about what Harry thought to actually have his feelings hurt by it. After all, he always acted so superior and so above him, like Harry was nothing more than a bug beneath his shoe. It just didn't make _sense_.

It was only when Harry recalled some of Tom's memories — specifically the ones where he’d been teased and laughed at by the other orphan — that things started to click into place. Tom had definitely been affected back then, and it occurred to Harry that being laughed at had probably brought back unwanted memories of times where he'd been the small one, the weak one, the one without control. It was a terribly vulnerable position to be in: down on the floor, while someone stood over him and laughed.

That revelation almost had Harry feeling sorry — almost. He quickly squashed that feeling down, though. Tom had never once care about  _Harry’s_  feelings, so why should Harry care about  _his_?

 _'He deserves to know what it's like,’_ he thought bitterly. 

At that exact moment, Tom abruptly got to his feet. The action caused Harry to startle away, momentarily thinking that the other boy was going to actually  _attack_ him. That wasn't what happened, though. Tom just strode away without even sparing Harry another glance, his entire demeanor exuding a deadly calm.

Harry sat there and watched him go, trying to pretend not to notice or care that he'd just really upset Tom somehow. Tom didn't deserve sympathy. He  _didn't_. With that conviction, he turned his attention down to the puddle on the ground, which had spread through the entire hallway in one giant soapy mess. Harry groaned aloud and went off to get the mop, already knowing that this would take at least an extra half-hour to clean up.

So much for supper.

xxxxx

By the time Harry finally trudged up to his room, it was dark and his whole body was aching. He wanted nothing more than to change into his pajamas and crawl into bed, perhaps sleep for a whole week (not that Mrs. Cole would ever allow such a thing). As soon as he walked into his room,though, he stopped dead — Tom was there, standing calmly with his hands behind his back. Several theories as to why Tom would be in his room ran through Harry's head, none of them good.

"Tom?" he asked suspiciously. "What are you doing in my room?"

Tom's expression was flat, but Harry didn’t miss the almost wicked glint in his eyes as he said, "Do you think your parents loved you, Harry?"

"What?" Harry was taken aback by the completely unexpected question.

“Do you think your parents _loved_  you?” Tom repeated, his voice taking on a strange tone — one that Harry couldn’t quite place.

Looking down, Harry considered the question and just shrugged slightly. "I...I don't know, maybe? I’d like to think that they did."

"I used to think the same," Tom said quietly, causing Harry to look up again. "But then I realized how stupid I was for believing that. My father never wanted me and my mother left me here to rot."

"Didn't your mother die?" Harry asked, furrowing his brows. Tom never talked about his parents, so he wondered why he was doing so now.

"She  _chose_ to die," Tom spat harshly, his voice trembling with barely constrained hatred. "She was weak."

Harry stared at Tom with bewilderment and slight alarm. Tom was a mean, cold-hearted person, but he was always composed. Never before had Harry seen him express so much  _emotion._ He didn't know how to react to this entirely unfamiliar situation, and that made him nervous.

"People don't just choose to die, Tom," Harry said softly, attempting to calm the boy. "Sometimes it just happens..."

Tom smiled at Harry, but it wasn't the least bit pleasant. "I suppose what happened to you is even worse, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, confused again.

"Well, your parents just dumped you on the streets," Tom said bluntly. "They didn't even bother to bring you inside the orphanage. They'd just left you to die in the rain."

Tom's words were cutting and obviously meant to hurt, but there was still an ugly and undeniable truth to them. All of his life, Harry had been haunted by the knowledge that his parents had abandoned him — had left him on the side of the road like he was nothing more than an animal. They hadn’t even cared if he died or not.

Yet, there’d always been a desperate part of Harry holding onto the belief that his parents  _must've_  wanted him, at least a little; that there must've been a good reason for what they'd done. Now, though, Tom’s words were forcing him to acknowledge the possibility that his parents really had just abandoned him (had never wanted him), and that felt like a knife to the heart.

It was that moment that Tom chose to reveal what he’d been holding behind his back the entire time. Harry’s eyes widened when he saw that it was his stuffed dog.

"Were you going through my things?" he accused, stomach twisting with ugly panic. "Give that back, now!"

"Not until you apologize for laughing at me!" Tom said, his eyes flashing with anger.

That caused Harry to falter. "Apologize to you?' he repeated in disbelief. "You've got to be kidding! After all the things you've done to me?"

Tom pressed his lips together, gripping the stuffed dog tightly in his hand. "Do you really think I deserved it?"

Harry stared at him in surprise, the realization occurring to him that Tom must’ve been able to hear his thoughts earlier. He didn’t really have time to think on that discovery, though, his anger and panic overriding his ability to think rationally.

" _Yes_ , Tom, you deserved it! You’re always horrible to me! To everyone! You’re just a  _horrible_  person!”

Harry regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back.

Tom's expression turned dark and the dog suddenly burst into flames in his grip. Within seconds, Harry's most prized possession became nothing more than a pile of smoldering ash on the floor.

Harry was in far too much shock to fully comprehend what'd just happened. Perhaps later he would wonder how Tom had managed to do that, but currently all he  _could_  do was stand there rooted to the ground, ears ringing loudly as he stared at the burnt remnants of his stuffed dog — the only connection he had to a past he couldn’t remember, taken from him in the blink of an eye.

Vision turning black with rage, Harry was across the room within seconds, forcefully grabbing Tom by the front of his shirt.

"Why? Why do you do this to me? WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?" Harry shouted at him, tears building up in his eyes. "What did I  _ever_ do to you?"

"You wouldn't understand," Tom murmured, his emotionless tone a stark contrast to the wild and unconstrained fury that was currently consuming Harry.

"Of course not! Who could  _ever_  understand whatever demented thoughts go through your head!” Harry seethed, voice so venomous that it took even him by surprise. He was too far into it to reign himself back, though, and before he knew it he was screaming. “I hate you! I _HATE_ YOU! I WISH YOU WOULD JUST GO _AWAY_!"

Releasing Tom, Harry furiously rubbed at the tears streaming down his face. He was so angry he could barely breathe, barely think — his heart was beating so hard he thought it might actually explode right out of his chest.

Gasping for breath and still sobbing, Harry glanced at Tom through his tears. His words had an obvious impact, because Tom’s expression had turned startled, as if he hadn't expected Harry to actually say that. Harry didn't care, though. For once, he found he really did  _not_  care. In the past, he'd tried to view Tom as a lonely person who resorted to extreme tactics to get people to notice him; and for that, he’d always harbored a shred of sympathy for him.

Not this time, though. Not ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up, my dudes? Here's another chapter for you. A few small changes here, but for the most part it's just been almost entirely rewritten to flow better.


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